


Five Times Noah Stilinski Couldn't Fix Things For His Son (And One Time He Sorta Could)

by Arsenic



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Background Relationships, Bullying, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-15 17:01:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18673813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arsenic/pseuds/Arsenic
Summary: It's not that Noah wouldn't do anything for Stiles.  It's just that most of the time, that's not enough.





	Five Times Noah Stilinski Couldn't Fix Things For His Son (And One Time He Sorta Could)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tabbytabbytabby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tabbytabbytabby/gifts).



> Hi recip! Being upfront, this is a pretty different brand of h/c than I normally write, so I want to thank you for the challenge, and I hope you enjoy what I came up with.
> 
> Thanks to the mods for running this challenge so seamlessly. And thank you to my beta who was willing to deal with the fact that I needed a pretty quick turn around.

**One**

Noah's been sent home early the day he gets the call from the school. That doesn't really differentiate it much from other days recently, other days since the funeral. The call from the school is definitely new, though. Stiles has been silent and…and _biddable_ , since that night when Noah arrived too late to say goodbye to Claudia, their son keeping vigil over her body.

"Deputy Stilinski?" the person on the line asks.

"You got him," Noah says, pouring himself another drink. He hasn't had one since before going into the station this morning. Everything feels shaky and sharp and too real.

"Hi deputy, this is Brenda Kinsington, the nurse at Beacon Elementary. Stiles has a hundred and two degree fever. It seems like it's probably just the flu that's been going around, but someone will have to come pick him up. He can't come back until his temperature has been normal for twenty-four hours."

The drag of whiskey Noah's just taken burns, even as it softens things. His fear is a deeper, harsher burn. "Do—should I take him to the hospital, do you think?"

"If you can't get his temperature down in the next few hours or so, probably, but some Tylenol and a lukewarm bath will probably do the trick. Try to get as many fluids in him as possible, even popsicles will do the trick, although water, chicken broth, and orange juice are the best things for him. Kids are pretty hardy, though, he'll likely be up and running you off your feet in a few days."

At first, with Claudia, they'd said it was just migraines, just a matter of finding the right medication. He takes another swallow. "All right, thank you, I'll be there shortly."

* 

Stiles bursts into tears the second Noah steps into the nurse's office. Stiles, who hasn't cried since the hospital, not even at the graveside. Stiles, who, when Claudia had yelled that the boy was evil, was trying to harm her, had stood, small and scared and _hurt_ , but without a tear falling.

Stiles _sobs_. Suddenly, for the first time in a while, Noah is ashamed of himself, knows with a sharp clarity that Claudia would be ashamed of him as well. He stumbles toward Stiles and sweeps his kid into his arms. Stiles doesn't fight, but he doesn't cling, either, the way he had for the first few weeks, until Noah had yelled at him, drunk and tired and angry at the world, had said, "Stop being such a mama's boy."

Noah says, "I've got you, Stiles. I'm here."

In the midst of his bawling, Stiles manages to enunciate, "I want my mom."

Noah thinks he feels more helpless in that moment than he did running into the hospital room, eyes catching on his son's hands, wrapped around Claudia's all-too-still hand. He rocks Stiles in his arms and says, "I'm here."

 

*

Noah takes Stiles home, gives him children's Tylenol, like the nurse said to, and makes him a can of Campbell's chicken soup. He'll have to call Melissa and see if she can pick up some popsicles and ginger ale. Stiles falls asleep at the kitchen table, halfway through the bowl.

Noah changes the sheets on his bed for the first time in…he's not sure. Too long. He settles Stiles in the middle of his bed before kicking off his own shoes and crawling in with his son. Stiles whimpers in his sleep, and Noah murmurs, "Sh, you're all right. Everything's going to be all right."

He might not believe the words himself, but Stiles quiets down, curling into his chest. Belief can come later.

**Two**

Stiles talks about everything that doesn't matter, then locks up like a damned gun vault on the topics that do. Noah's trained in police-work, sure, and has just managed to get himself elected sheriff, but he's not a mind-reader. He can tell when Stiles is hurting because Stiles is his world and there's nothing he pays closer attention to, but he can't necessarily divine where the hurt is stemming from.

He knows Stiles is being made fun of at school. He's too smart and vibrant and heedless of his own words, and kids are cruel in the middle-school years, this is a universal truth. But they're cruel about a myriad of things, and Noah can never pinpoint which of his son's differences might have occasioned a new and different attack.

Instead of prying, Noah tries to divert Stiles' attention whenever it seems to really be getting under Stiles’ skin. Sometimes Noah'll find a day trip for them to take on his day off, or purposely call Stiles' attention to his diet, or anything that's not whatever's happening at school. Scott's a good friend, but he's not a barrier against the world, and Noah doesn't expect another twelve-year old to play that part for his son.

Not even he can do that, no matter how much he might wish he could.

Still, Noah maybe loses a minute or two, the day Stiles oh-so-casually asks him, "Mom didn't—she didn't die to get away from me, right?"

Noah blinks at where Stiles is scratching away at his math homework at the dining room table. His pencil keeps moving. Noah asks, "Who—who gave you that idea?"

Stiles shrugs. Noah takes a deep breath. It's not like he can beat the tar out of other people's children. That's frowned upon.

"She said I was a monster," Stiles says. The tip of his pencil breaks upon being pressed into the paper too hard.

Noah goes and kneels beside Stiles, taking the pencil from him. "Stiles, hey, c'mon, look at me, kid."

Stiles doesn't lift his head, but he peers up a little. Noah will take it. "Those kids don't know what they're talking about. Your mom loved you more than anything in the world. Anything, even me, you understand?"

Stiles shrugs again. Noah has to suppress the urge to shake him. Instead, he presses their foreheads together. "Stiles. Your mom was sick. It sucks, and it's not fair, and I hate it, and I miss her every day, but it had nothing to do with you. If she could have chosen anything in the world, _anything_ , it would have been to stay and be your mom for the rest of time, you hear me?"

Stiles sniffles. He's much, much too big for it at this point, all arms and legs, but Noah pulls him up out of the chair and carries him to the couch, where he can hold him on his lap. Stiles clings to him, crying quietly into his shoulder. Noah rubs at his back, saying, "You can't even imagine how much your mom loved you, kiddo, and we both know how big your imagination is. That's how huge her love was, okay?"

Stiles shudders, but Noah thinks he feels a nod somewhere in there. He holds on tight and hopes he's right about that.

**Three**

Stiles has a tell when he’s lying. No, that’s not it, exactly. Stiles has a different tell for different kinds of lies, but he has tells. Usually, Noah will catch one: a flicker of the fingers on his left hand, a slight flinch in his shoulders, a too-rapid series of blinks. This time, none of them are there, but all the same, in the pit of his stomach, Noah _knows_ Stiles is lying to him.

The worst part is, Stiles is right to do it. If Noah finds out who left the bruises he can see on Stiles, who caused the way he’s moving stiffly, screw pistol-whipping, he’s going to break every bone in both their hands. Slowly.

It’s probably a good thing he can’t. It doesn’t feel good. It feels like one more way he can’t help Stiles, and lately, there have been so many. It feels like Stiles slipping ever further through Noah’s fingers, further from his grasp. Like soon Stiles won’t be his at all.

For now, though, Stiles is holding on tight to the hug Noah has him in, whispering reassurances as if all he needs is for _Noah_ to believe everything is all right. Noah has never been a particularly good dissembler; Stiles gets every drop of that from Claudia. But if Stiles needs Noah to lie to him, Noah will learn, will say, “Everything is all right,” without so much as a flinch.

**Four**

Raising a teenager is complicated. Raising a teenager as a single working father is more complicated. Raising a teenager who’s gotten tangled up in shit that’s not even supposed to exist in the real world as a single working father is ridiculous, and not something anyone should ever have to do. 

Noah consoles himself with this thought as he drags his ass into a morning shift after yet another largely sleepless night. It’s hard to settle when he’s waiting for Stiles’ screams to rouse him, waiting to try and calm his son who cannot be calmed, waiting to spend the rest of the night packed into Stiles’ twin bed with him, murmuring assurances of safety. It does not matter how fiercely he holds Stiles, though, what he says, how long he stays in his son’s bed, there is no calming Stiles. Sure, he’ll fall asleep again from sheer exhaustion. But even then, he twitches and whimpers, taking short stuttering breaths in his sleep. It can’t be any more restful than the lying awake Noah does.

Noah should probably take Stiles’ keys. He has this thought as he pulls up at the station without remembering a single part of the drive there. Parenting involves a fair amount of hypocrisy. It’s one of the things Noah has long since resigned himself to.

*

The nightmares aren’t like Before. Before the nogitsune they were formless, Stiles’ terror something without reason or rhyme. Now Stiles wakes crying out Allison’s name, hoarse and sick with it.

Noah says, “It’s not your fault, it wasn’t you.”

Stiles says, “But I remember it being me.”

Noah bites back the rejoinder, “Memories can be faulty.” It hits a little too close, the moment of seeing Stiles’ brain echo Claudia’s on the film is still stark inside him. Like a cut that cannot be found, is impossible to heal. Instead he says, “I’m here.”

It’s all he’s got.

**Five**

Noah’s on his way home from a nicely boring shift when his cell rings, announcing, “Call from Argent.”

So much for an evening of watching baseball and getting a decent night’s sleep. He slides his finger across the screen. “Chris.”

“Stiles is at General, Mel’s in surgery with him, she said to say prognosis is good.”

Noah pulls over. He’s not entirely sure how long it is before Chris says, “Breathe, Noah. You’re no good to him frantic.”

For a quick, hysterical moment, Noah wonders if Chris even knows what panic feels like. If he’s capable of experiencing it. It’s an uncharitable thought toward a man who’s lost his entire family and done nothing but continue to try and do his best to do what he thinks is right. Noah catches his breath enough to ask, “What happened?”

“Harpy claw wound.”

Harpies. Because of course. Noah’s starting to be irritated by his own ability to evidently be continuously surprised. “Where’s the harpy?”

“Very dead. Scott and a couple of the other wolves are taking care of the bodies.”

“I’m on my way to General.”

“Drive safe,” Chris says and cuts the call.

*

Derek is in the waiting room. He stands, nervous and shy, the way he always is around Noah, no matter Noah’s attempts to make it otherwise. Noah asks, “News?”

Derek shakes his head. “Should I—I was just making sure someone—I can go. Now.”

“Sit down, Derek.”

Aside from the fact that Scott probably doesn’t need a distracted Derek on his hands right now, and Derek _will_ go to help if he leaves here, Noah’s not interested in sitting in the hospital waiting room alone. Talk about having done something a few million too many times.

Derek sits. “I—I’m sorry.”

Noah looks over at him. The kid’s clothes are ripped to hell and back, the black of the materials the only thing hiding the fact that he’s clearly bled from a number of places this evening. Tired and scared and not at his best, Noah bites out, “For what part of it?”

Derek flinches, and Noah immediately regrets the question. Lord knows if Derek could go back in time, Stiles would never have become involved in any of this, because the Hale fire would never have happened. Softly, Noah says, “You killed the harpy, didn’t you?”

Derek glances away, and Noah has the sense that Chris’s “very dead” assessment involved some pretty graphic carnage. Noah nods. “If we could protect and save the things that matter most all of the time, or even some of the time, Stiles’ mom would still be alive.”

Derek whips his gaze back, then, eyes wide and bright, expression open and vulnerable. Noah nods once more, and the two of them settle into a comfortable, if anxious, silence.

*

It’s another half an hour before Mel comes out with the doctor, who informs Noah that Stiles is going to make a full recovery, although it will require a fair amount of PT. Noah honestly doesn’t hear much past the part about Stiles recovering. The doctor shakes his hand and walks away, and then Mel is saying, “C’mon, I’ll sneak you into his room.”

Noah glances over at Derek, who’s staring at the ground, just breathing. He says, “Go home, Derek. Shower, change, try and sleep a little bit. Bring an apple turnover in the morning. Just the smell alone will buy you his love until the end of time.”

Derek looks up and tilts his head, clearly unsure if Noah is fucking with him or not. Noah doesn’t feel the need to enlighten him. He’s got to get his kicks somewhere.

*

Stiles has the pasty, too-pale appearance of someone who’s lost most of his blood. His hair is practically a birds’ nest up top and lies limp against his forehead. He’s got more than a few wires surrounding him.

But the beep of the machines is steady, regular, an ever-present reminder that Stiles’ heart is beating just the way it should. Noah sits on the chair next to him and carefully takes the hand without IV ports in it in his own. He loses track of time in the sound of the beeps, of Stiles’ deep breaths, so he has no idea what time it is when that breath stutters and Stiles’ eyes flutter just the tiniest bit open.

“D--?” The single letter gets croaked out, and Noah gets up to sponge down his lips, give him a piece of ice.

“’M here, kid.” Wasn’t there when there were fucking harpies, but now, now that Derek has killed the enemy, and Mel and her doctor have sewn his child back together, now he’s here.

Stiles mutters, “Don’ leave,” before giving into the pull of the drugs again.

“Not going anywhere.” Nowhere at all.

 

**Six**

Stiles hands are shaking as he tries to tie the bow-tie he had commissioned for this day. Noah gently pulls them away and says, “Let me get that.”

It’s an atrocious bow-tie with a collage of various Wolfmen throughout cinematic and video game history. “Did you mention this to your fiancé?”

Stiles makes a dismissive noise. “What? And ruin the surprise?”

Noah huffs a laugh. “I think _you_ might be the one getting surprised. By being left at the altar.”

Stiles goes still under his hands, unnaturally so even for every-day Stiles. Today, it’s enough to startle Noah into missing a loop and having to start all over again. Stiles hasn’t stopped moving in a week. “Stiles?”

“You—he’s not gonna—he loves me. He loves me, and he wants this. He does, right?”

Stiles is twenty-seven. He graduated summa cum laude from GW, has a Masters from Berkeley, and a full-time job with the CBI, where Noah knows for a fact people call him “Mulder” to his face. With respect. He’s considered one of the foremost right hands to an alpha in the continental United States: the only human one. He is beloved by his pack, by his father, and by Derek, who’s probably driving Scott crazy with his own insecurities a few rooms down the hall.

He’s also Noah’s kid. The same kid who sometimes, in the dark of night, worries his mom really did think he was a monster. The same kid who wakes from nightmares and has tried to scrub the skin off his hands to get rid of blood only he can see. The same kid who runs with wolves, even knowing he’ll never entirely catch up. Noah’s baby boy.

Noah swallows and speaks calmly, evenly. With clear intent. “Stiles, Derek loves you more than he loves having a pack again. He loves you enough that were it a choice, I honestly believe he’d choose you over getting his family back. The only person in this world who loves you more than Derek Hale is me, and only because I’m your dad, and I’ll always love you the most.”

Stiles takes a breath. It’s shaky, but it comes with renewed fidgets, and a smile that’s broad enough to overrule the wetness of his eyes. “Yeah? No, I mean, yeah, right—”

“Stiles.” Noah takes Stiles’ face between his hands. “It’s not just that Derek would die for you. It’s that Derek has chosen, time and again, to live for you. To trust you to help him survive. He hasn’t done that for _anyone _else.”__

__There’s a few beats, both of their breaths loud in the otherwise quiet of the room. And then Stiles nods, closing his eyes for a moment, opening them with a newfound calm. “Yeah, he has, hasn’t he?”_ _

__Softly, Noah says, “He has.” He goes back to Stiles’ bow tie, and has it neatly done in another minute. “Truly, if you don’t make an honest man out of him, I’m pretty sure he’s gonna do something drastic, and nobody needs that.”_ _

__Stiles laughs. “He definitely generates enough drama without giving him any more reasons to do so.” He bunches his fists in the front of Noah’s jacket and says, “Love you, dad. I—love you.”_ _

__Noah pulls him into a hug, aware that it will probably rumple both of their tuxes, and having absolutely zero fucks to give about that. “Love you too, kid. More than you’ll ever know.”_ _


End file.
